Honour and Integrity
by JantoJones
Summary: Illya battles his inner assassin.


Melvin Owens had been kneeling in the snow for almost forty minutes. The cold, however, was nothing in comparison to the icy glint in the eye of his captor. Beyond ordering Owens to his knees, Illya Kuryakin had said nothing. Melvin had said plenty. He'd pleaded for his life, offered to sell THRUSH secrets and, as time went on, starting giving up the secrets for free. The information being imparted was of little interest to the Russian, though his subconscious stored it away for a later time.

Illya was in a quandary. Almost every thought and instinct was screaming at him to pull the trigger of his gun, yet something held him back. Although his expression was neutral, Illya felt nothing but hatred for the man in front of him. Owens had set a scheme in motion which had led to the deaths of thirty children and two teachers. Illya knew he would be right in killing the man, and had this been in the Soviet Union, he wouldn't have thought twice; yet still, he hesitated.

Since joining U.N.C.L.E., something had happed to him. The cold-hearted, ruthless assassin he knew himself to be was now buried deep. Illya no longer took a life when it wasn't necessary; choosing to use sleep darts most of the time. He could almost convince himself he was an honourable man.

Today, he had chosen live rounds.

"Why don't you say something?" Owens yelled, desperately trying to read Illya's face.

Kuryakin remained still and silent. After another ten minutes, the Thrushman decided to take the risk of attacking the Russian, but soon scrabbled back when Illya fired into the ground in front of him. He could have just as easily shot Owens, but for reasons he couldn't fathom, he didn't.

Melvin Owens deserved death; there was no doubt about that, but Illya had learned that living in relative freedom meant accepting the justice that protected it. He was agent for law and enforcement, which meant he couldn't execute a man simply because he wanted to. Besides, the man's earlier babbling was proof he had useful information. It would be a waste to dispose of him, but maybe a man who killed thirty-two people without remorse shouldn't be allowed any form of mercy.

Illya thought back to his earlier days, when he had been ordered to executed people. The memories, which he rarely brought to mind, were a source of shame for him. He was often accused, quite correctly, of having a bloodthirsty streak, but despite what he believed of himself, Illya Kuryakin was indeed an honourable man. Melvin Owens would face justice, but it wasn't Illya's to decide. He would, however, request that he could conduct the interrogation.

Across the white, snow covered expanse, Illya became aware of a vehicle coming towards them. He didn't move, or take his eye off the prisoner, knowing that it would be Napoleon.

"Any problems?" Solo asked, as he climbed out of the vehicle.

A barely perceptible shake of the head was his only response from Illya.

"There's something not right about him," Owens whined. "He even took a shot at me."

"Believe me," Napoleon hissed, as he handcuffed the man. "If my friend had meant to hit you, you wouldn't be here to complain about it."

….

Later on, after Owens had been processed, Napoleon went looking for Illya. He'd disappeared after handing over the prisoner, and Solo was worried. There'd been a look in the Russian's eyes which told of trouble. He found his quarry in the gym, working on the pommel horse. It was a couple of minutes before Illya noticed the other man, who was content to allow him to finish.

"Do you need me?" he asked.

"Just checking to make sure you're okay," Napoleon told him. "You seemed a little anxious."

Illya hung his head. "I wanted to kill Owens. Not out of defence or protection; I simply wanted to murder him."

Solo placed a comforting hand on Illya's shoulder. "After the atrocity he was responsible for, I wouldn't have blamed you, but wanting and doing are two very different things. Don't beat yourself up about it."

Illya looked his partner in the face and offered him his self-conscious half-smile.

"Thank you my friend," he said, warmly. "I just hope I can hold myself back again, next time the situation arises."

"I don't doubt it, Tovarisch; you're a man of integrity. Come on, I'll buy you lunch."

Illya grinned, "Who said miracles couldn't happen."


End file.
